


the lighthouse

by inherownwrite



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Beatles, Alternative Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Love at First Sight, M/M, Moral Dilemmas, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Romance, Slow Burn, Soulmates, Strangers to Lovers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-29
Updated: 2020-11-18
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:40:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23914726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inherownwrite/pseuds/inherownwrite
Summary: Paul knew, before he even set foot on the cobbled pavement, that he was going to fall in love.AU, spring 1963. John is a lighthouse keeper in a tiny seaside town. Paul is looking for a way home.
Relationships: John Lennon/Cynthia Lennon (mentioned), John Lennon/Paul McCartney, Paul McCartney/Dot Rhone (mentioned)
Comments: 39
Kudos: 96





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [stonedlennon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stonedlennon/gifts).



> i'm dedicating this work to stonedlennon, whose fic 'only a northern song' - a magnificent, amazing, clever and quick-witted John&Paul story that i am completely and utterly obsessed with - inspired me to write again.
> 
> i have also been listening to many deliciously angsty indie songs whilst writing this fic. among them you'll find salt and the sea by the lumineers, for no one by houndmouth, lights on by lola kirke, and (above all) southern star by gregory alan isakov. listen for a transformative experience.
> 
> please note that i have unabashedly borrowed and reinterpreted the beatles' canon for the purposes of this story, meaning that all characters, relationships, dates and timelines must not be judged for historical accuracy. i apologize in advance!
> 
> finally... thank you so much for reading!

Paul knew, before he even set foot on the cobbled pavement, that he was going to fall in love. 

“Cor, this is a quaint place, innit?” George remarked, squinting out of the car windshield. The houses rolled by them in a blur of pink and blue and yellow, a row of seaside houses that bled cheerful colour in between streaks of salt from the coast. 

Paul hummed in agreement, looking out at the rocky cliff below. As he watched, seagulls swooped and swerved from their perches on cragged rocks, teasing the black waves from the North Sea that crashed upwards to meet them. Although they had the windows of the car sealed tightly shut against the chilling bite of the spring air, Paul could still smell that unique smell indigenous to the sea: the smell of salt and rot, of death and life and kinetic energy. A visceral feeling enveloped him, something that spoke to his marrow and told him that he was exactly where he was meant to be. 

Contented, Paul stretched his legs to rest on the dash of the car, earning him a swift elbow in the ribs from George. 

“Oi! Watch it, you!’ 

Early on in their friendship, Paul had learned that George always spoke in a slow, meandering drawl, as if nothing he could possibly say was worth speaking faster than he deigned to — a quirk which took the vehemence out of his voice, and rendered most of his protests null. 

“I’ll not have you fall asleep on me. You’ve navigated us this far, and now I need you to find us a pub and our inn — and in that order! I feel like I’ve been driving for days.”

“You’ve been driving for four hours, you nit, and you had fish and chips not even an hour ago.”

“Aye, but I’m a growing lad, aren’t I? I’m in need of nourishment.”

“Wee Georgie,” Paul teased, reaching over to muss George’s dark, carefully-styled quiff. “I forgot that I was traveling with an infant.”

“Nine months, Paul.” George groused, swerving away from Paul’s ruffling hand and almost driving the car off the side of the road in the process. There was a twang of protest from one of the guitars, stashed in the back of the car along with their other instruments. “For the last time.”

 _It’s still true though_ , Paul thought, but snorted good-naturedly and consulted his map, eyes tracing over the lines that had taken them from the grey skies of Liverpool to this sequestered village overlooking the sea. There was a twinge in his chest as he looked at the small black dot that represented his old home — Liverpool, Liddypool, _deus nobis haec otia fecit —_ a dot that marked the place where he had spent over twenty years of his life, where he had been born, where he had first learned to play guitar, where he had said goodbye to his mother. He couldn’t identify what he felt when he looked at the small blip on the page, and if he was honest with himself, he didn’t care to. The distance seemed to make everything smaller, anyway, and eased the constriction in his lungs. 

“Are we almost there, at least?” George grumbled, drumming his hands on the steering wheel in a true skiffle beat. 

Paul quickly peered out the window and then back down at the map spread over his legs, trying to judge their location. “Should be,” he affirmed. “The Fox and Hounds Pub is right on this road, actually, so you’d be blind to miss it. And the inn… the inn is right down the street from it.” 

Satisfied that they weren’t about to drive off merrily into the sea, Paul glanced at George’s hands, still in the throes of beating out an unconscious rhythm. Parsing together the tempo in his head, Paul began to whistle out loud, hamming up the high notes until it was distinguishable as nothing other than Little Richard. 

Eyes gleaming in recognition, George quickly began moving his hands with purposeful intent, thumping out a tiny drum solo on the steering wheel that had Paul laughing in his seat. Music was what had drawn them together in the first place, and what continued to cement their friendship years later. Paul wouldn’t have it any other way. No one else that he had ever met understood music, not like George did. 

Grinning to himself, Paul glanced again at the sea, the waves tossing and curling around one another, the rocks standing in stoic supervision. Impulsively, he wondered what it would be like to jump out of the car, through the passenger side window or door, off of the twisting road and into the water below — not in a ‘wanting-to-end-it-all’ sort of way, but in the absent-minded way one wants to experience life in all of its indelible possibilities. He imagined that it would be quite cold, and biting; he imagined that he could feel his mouth and nostrils filling with saltwater, his eyes burning and blinking against the sting.

A bump in the road jolted Paul out of his reverie. Tearing his eyes away from the water, Paul could barely make out what appeared to be a lighthouse in the smudged distance. Painted in whorls of red and white, it sat upon the cliff’s edge like a matriarch, carefully watching as their car approached the salt-streaked houses of her slumbering town. 

* * *

The next morning Paul awoke to sun streaming into his eyes and unfamiliar linens scratching against his cheek. He blinked blearily and stretched, feeling the remnants of hours slouched in a car the day prior make themselves known in the dull ache of his muscles. The details of the room slowly filtered through his sleep-heavy haze, bathed in yellow sunlight and pastel tones: his feet poking out from under a knitted blanket, thrown over a two poster bed; a wooden desk shoved haphazardly in a corner, strewn with bits of paper and ink; a surprisingly elegant faux balcony, flanked by sheer lace curtains that swayed delicately in the spring breeze. The whole room smelled like varnished wood, and maybe mothballs, and a little like the smell that clothes get when they’re left out to dry in the sun for too long. 

Paul wasn’t sure what to expect when he had called to enquire about cheap places to stay in the town, but the inn — from what little he’d seen of it so far — was surprisingly… nice. Matronly. An old radio played from a room somewhere below his own, some show tune from the 50s, and Paul winced as he opened his mouth to hum along. His breath, never pleasant in the morning to begin with, smelled like beer and chips and somewhat like that bird he’d snogged the night before. The reminder of last night’s blurry debauchery, juxtaposed against the patterned wallpaper and motherly decor surrounding his bed, made Paul feel vaguely guilty, as though he had done something that he shouldn’t have. 

As he looked around he felt something flutter against his forehead, sticking feather-like to his skin for an instant before drifting towards the floor. Frowning, he peered over the side of the bed and was greeted with George’s familiar untidy scrawl.

_Gone to breakfast with Astrid. I’ll catch up with you tonight — don’t sleep too long, you lazy sod._

George had scribbled a smiley face at the end of the note, complete with a wobbly upturned mouth and crooked eyes. Paul stared at it blankly. Astrid, his mind helpfully supplied, was a fellow wayfarer that they had met at the pub last night. 

Paul rolled his eyes and blew out his cheeks. _Good for George, the wily bugger_ , Paul thought, but he couldn’t help but also feel slightly abandoned. Leaving the piece of paper where it had fallen, he finally roused himself from bed and stalked off towards the adjoining bathroom, intent on scraping the taste of beer and brunette from his mouth. 

Shortly after he had rinsed his teeth, combed back his hair into its usual inky quiff, and thrown on a ratty bathrobe he had fished out from George’s luggage in the room next door, he settled on the bed with his guitar, thinking, rather optimistically, that he’d finish some songwriting. After all, he and George had traveled to this offbeat village-by-the-sea not just to briefly escape their dear old dock town, but to hopefully pick up a couple of music gigs — Paul wanted to be prepared. He had a half-formed melody floating around in the back of his mind, a somber and nostalgic wisp of a thing that had come to him in a dream, but he couldn’t seem to find the words to match it. He mucked around the chord progressions for a bit, strumming his guitar half-heartedly and singing about scrambled eggs to fill in the gaping holes in the lyrics. 

Tiring quickly of his lack of progress, and feeling rather lonely without George’s persistent drawl in his ear, Paul ended up dozing the rest of the morning, until he was awakened by a great clamor taking place outside on the street below. The sound of a wooden door slamming violently against its frame reached his ears, accompanied by the outraged voices of two men unleashing a torrent of angry verbiage into the previously silent street. Paul sat up in alarm. Twisting to extract himself from his cocoon of bedsheets, he stumbled to his window, placing his hands on the railing and leaning forward to gaze down at the scene beneath him. 

From his position on the second floor, he could clearly see a short, angry man with a shockingly large nose shout abuse at someone just beyond Paul’s line of sight. As Paul watched, a frying pan came hurtling out of nowhere, spinning towards the man and almost smacking him square in the face. To Paul’s bewilderment, the man seemed unfazed. 

“I will not have that damn deadbeat music in my shop at lunchtime!” the man yelled, retrieving the frying pan and flinging it back towards its source. “And you will not treat my kitchenware like a fuckin’ rugby ball!”

“Last I heard, it was a free bloody country!” Paul heard the second man shout in reply, the timbre of his voice rough and nasal and distinctly Scouse. 

“Exactly!” The first man bellowed, flinging his hand towards a building across from the inn. “And my customers should be free to eat in peace, without you snarling sweet nothings about — what was it? — _penitentiaries_ directly into their eardrums!”

“Your customers wouldn’t know good music if it bit them in the bollocks!”

“That’s another thing! There will also be no biting of bollocks in my establishment, you hear me?”

“You _what?”_

“Oh come off it, Lennon!” The first man had seemingly calmed from his original outburst, arms crossed in front of his chest and face molded into a look of stern displeasure. “I’m not putting anything past you and your wooly ways.”

Although Paul still couldn’t see the man’s assailant, the wall of the inn obstructing his view of the street below, he could still clearly hear his reply: A distant “Fuck off, Ringo” and a spiteful comment along the lines of “I’ll show you wooly ways”. A small smile twitched at the corners of the first man’s mouth — Ringo, Paul surmised.

The conflict seemingly resolved, Paul made to turn away from his balcony, not wanting to be caught as an unwelcome spectator. However, something told him to watch a little while longer, a tug of intuition that rooted him to the spot. A man was quickly entering Paul’s line of sight, approaching Ringo and the section of the street just below Paul, the weaponized frying pan dangling at his side. He was significantly taller than Ringo and angular in a captivating way, his broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist and endless legs that covered the pavement in long strides. Clapping a hand on Ringo’s back, the man muttered what sounded like a rather begrudging apology in his ear. As Paul watched, Ringo laughed kindly, accepting the proffered frying pan and embracing the man in turn. The two spoke quietly for a moment, heads bowed together, differences apparently forgotten for the time being. Just as the taller man began to step away from Ringo, his eyes, as if by a thread, looked up to where Paul was standing. 

When they made eye contact, a surge of energy snapped along Paul’s spine. He stared wide-eyed at the other man, his breath hitching in his throat. The man’s eyes were angular, arresting; an unsettlingly deep, honeyed brown framed by long eyelashes, slightly squinted against the afternoon sun and giving him an overall intense, assessing manner. The smooth planes of his face accentuated a long, aquiline nose, sitting atop a mouth that had a downcast turn etched into it — as if the man’s unbidden face was one of displeasure. His eyebrows were thick and partially covered by his hair, which fell in rebellious auburn strands across his forehead. 

Adrenaline coursed through Paul’s bloodstream, whipping through his veins and causing his heart to hammer wildly against his chest. He didn’t understand what was happening but he didn’t want to look away. In fact, whenever he tried to break their eye contact, Paul found that he couldn’t, something primal and instinctive instructing him to hold his gaze. The man seemed similarly afflicted, watching Paul in a way that made it seem as if he was loath to stop. Distantly, Paul noticed that the man’s skin was pale and lightly freckled, and as Paul stared, it tinted a dusky pink. 

If time had passed while they stared at each other, Paul wouldn’t have noticed. He wasn’t sure if days or mere seconds had gone by when, out of the corner of his eye, he could see Ringo nudging the man with his elbow, eyebrows drawn together in confusion. Following his gaze up to Paul’s balcony, his face cleared, and he huffed and shoved the other man again, this time in a more teasing manner. 

“What?” The man snapped, finally breaking the trance when he shifted to face Ringo with a scowl. 

“You just seem a little distracted there, mate,” Ringo said, nose twitching in amusement. 

The man scowled harder, bestowing yet another “Fuck off, Ringo” upon the smaller man. As Paul watched, he shoved his hands deep into his leather jacket pockets and stalked off in the direction of the sea, beyond where the main street ended towards the rocky coastline. Before turning the corner, he threw an irritated, baleful look in Paul’s direction, then disappeared from sight. Both Paul and Ringo stood immobile for a moment, watching the place where the man had vanished. Silence descended upon the street once more, but it was a peculiar silence — the silence that arrives in the aftermath of some transformative world event, where everyone waits on bated breath to see if it will last. 

Coughing lightly to capture Ringo’s attention, Paul called down to the street below.

“Who was that man?”

Ringo blinked slowly, as if considering whether to answer the question. 

“What do you mean?”

“His name,” Paul tried again. “What’s his name?”

Another pause.

“Lennon,” Ringo answered at last. “John Lennon.” 

Rather than linger in the street, Ringo apologized for the noise and promptly bade Paul good afternoon, crossing the street to enter the building directly across from Paul. A sign overhead proclaimed it to be Hurricane’s Cafe, which meant that it was presumably the ‘shop’ at the center of the mad altercation. The door closed behind him with a decisive thud. 

_John Lennon._ Paul thought the name over and over in his head as he stumbled his way back to the bed. _John Lennon._ The name sounded right in his head, as if Paul was meant to think it, and when he said it out loud it sounded right in the wallpapered walls of his room, as if Paul was meant to say it. Paul collapsed on the bed, staring at the ceiling. 

When they were younger, around 15 and 14, George had begun what had turned out to be a lifelong obsession with Indian culture. He loved sitar music, and transcendental meditation, and eventually he introduced Paul to Hinduism, or as Paul sardonically remembered, ‘the eternal way.’ Paul had patiently endured George’s impassioned ramblings, and he had enjoyed seeing the enthused spark of ardor that had illuminated his eyes, but for a teenaged Paul — who was so young, and had already lost so much, and had become disillusioned with faith entirely — the only higher power that he could possibly even think to worship was rock ‘n’ roll. Music could never hurt him, and it could never let him down. Elvis was his God; his half-scribbled lyrics were his prayers. While George had dutifully recited his _Hare Krishnas,_ Paul had stolen the latest Buddy Holly and the Crickets album from the local record store. 

However, sitting on the quilted bed of a tiny inn by the sea, thinking of a boy he had just met with red hair and clever eyes, Paul couldn’t help but plead to a higher power. _Krishna help me_ _,_ he prayed, then thought again, slightly helplessly: _John Lennon_.


	2. Chapter 2

Paul saw John Lennon both everywhere and nowhere for weeks after that fateful day. He glimpsed flashes of red every time he ventured outside, quick and subtle like sunlight hitting strands of hair, before it seemed to disappear with a wink around street corners and behind closed doors. He heard pots and pans clattering and clamoring all the time, especially when the shop across the street opened its patio to guests in the afternoon, but to his dismay none were being violently flung or abused. Sometimes, when Paul was composing with his guitar out by the town docks, he swore that he could even hear a rough bite of laughter before a salty breeze carried it away.

Paul was worried that he was going insane. In fact, enough time had passed since he had actually laid eyes on the man that he began to believe he had dreamed up their encounter entirely, or was perhaps experiencing the early stages of a full-on psychotic breakdown.

George was not helpful at all, but was rather unsympathetic and ruthless, mercilessly teasing Paul and his long-winded, nonsensical ramblings about the encounter over dinner.

“You mean you just stared at each other?” he asked after Paul had recounted the story, struggling to form words around a mouthful of mashed potatoes.

“Aye,” Paul said, staring at his own half-eaten plate of steak and peas with a mournful frown.

“And you said nothing at all? Not even a ‘how’d ye do?’”

“Aye,” Paul repeated, becoming annoyed. “It was a bit awkward, mind you, with me staring down at him like a loon and all.”

“I’m sure it wasn’t as bad as you think,” George assured him, stabbing at a particular chip with gusto. “It’s not like me and Astrid do much talking either, anyroad.”

Paul choked on a mouthful of food, then threw a pea at George in disgust. “Gross,” he accused. “Spare me the sordid details, ta very much.”

“I’m just sayin’,” George mumbled. He was sitting across the table from Paul, the lighting of the tavern emphasizing the stern set of his brows, the hollows of his cheeks. They had found a place to eat together after an hour spent wandering through the darkened streets of the town, relishing in the sound of the sea that kissed the paved banks of the shore and the stars that were littered above them — brighter and more plentiful than they had ever seen in Liverpool. They had stood transfixed on the road outside of the tavern for what seemed like ages, necks craning upwards, before the warmth and laughter of the bar had beckoned them through its doors.

Inside it was loud and beery, teetering on the brink of being overcrowded as the local townsfolk gathered for a night of drunken conversation and cheap bar food. Paul and George had slid into a booth near the back, where they were observing the crowd with interest. It seemed quite possible that the entire town population was present in the tumbledown bar: men with off-kilter ties fell haphazardly over the counter to better leer at groups of giggling women, old men puffed away at their pipes amidst newspapers and card games, and young boys — dressed similar to Paul and George themselves, leather-clad and posturing — hung around the outskirts, backs to the wall and chins jutted out. There was an old jukebox tucked away into the corner, spewing out some number one hit by Brenda Lee, and Paul subconsciously tapped his foot on the grimy wooden floor.

“To be frank, Paul, I just don’t understand why you’re so obsessed with this fella,” George continued. He had inhaled the majority of his food within the short course of their conversation, and he now sat with his plate cast aside, shooting frequent and unsubtle glances at Paul’s leftovers. Paul observed this with a twinge of irritation. George could eat anything and everything in sight and not gain a single pound, while Paul had been known as the fat schoolboy for the majority of his childhood. With a huff, he shoved his plate towards George, who graced him with a toothy grin.

“Ta, Paul,” he sighed happily, before glancing up at him and raising one thick, dark eyebrow. “But seriously. You just never seem to know when to leave well enough alone. Remember that time when you made us take six whole buses across the whole of Liverpool —”

“Oh, come off it!” Paul pursed his lips. “It was two buses, actually —”

“— just to talk to some poor old codger who was rumored to know a B7 chord? I thought he was just about ready to have us committed.”

“Aye, we could’ve been dancing the jailhouse rock if he had, I reckon.”

“Ha, ha,” George said, deadpan. “Like a bloody hound dog, you are though. One-track mind.”

Letting out a snort of amusement, Paul lazily regarded George from across the table. He enjoyed reminiscing with George about the rose-tinted escapades of their Teddy Boy days, even if it was at his expense. He now felt loose-limbed and relaxed; the pretty blonde waitress had just brought two hefty pints of beer to their table with a suggestive wink. He slid further down in his seat, leather jacket sticking on the wood, until George’s face appeared level with the sweaty rim of his glass. The room was becoming warmer and warmer with the steady pulse of people and drink.

“You have to admit,” he mused, beer heavy on his tongue, “that chord turned out to be pretty useful.”

“In that one song we recorded? If you say so.”

“I do say so,” Paul insisted. He drummed his fingers on the table. The jukebox had started playing Barbara Lewis: Hello, stranger. “Anyroad. Do you have a light?”

George looked displeased at this obvious change in conversation, but grudgingly shifted in his drainies to fish out his pack of Woodbines. Paul watched his lighter as it clicked and flared to life, briefly casting a murky shadow onto the dark grain of the table. It reminded Paul of the lighthouse they had seen when they had first arrived in town, a stark light that illuminated even the most hidden of crevices.

Paul had to admit that George had a point about the odd interaction, the electric eye contact, the unexpected clash of metal on pavement. Paul couldn’t let it go. And if Paul was honest with himself, and he rarely was, he wasn’t exactly sure why he was so enthralled by the strange man — something that he willfully chose not to examine too closely. If anything, the entire incident was a promising and welcome distraction from thoughts of home, which seemed to cling to him like a second skin despite the long stretch of miles in between.

As if reading his mind, George interrupted his wandering thoughts.

“Have you called Dot yet?”

“No,” Paul said shortly.

“Paul…”

“And so what if I haven’t?” Paul stabbed his cigarette onto the tray on the table. “I gave her the number of the inn. She knows where to find me.”

“But if she thinks that you don’t want to be found?”

“Then let her think that. Christ, Georgie.” His eyes found the blonde waitress bobbing through the dimness of the bar. He wanted another pint. “I can’t control what she does and doesn’t do. You know that.”

“Easy, Paul.” George took a slow drag of his cigarette. His eyebrows were drawn together, making him appear even more statuesque and solemn than usual. “I just think that you have other things you could be worryin' about, people you should be obsessin’ over rather than — what was his name? — that Lennon bloke.”

Paul was just about to spit out a defensive retort when a large man, who was stumbling towards them in a horde of his similarly statured friends, paused tipsily beside their table. His eyes were glazed and bulbous, and his stomach protruded proudly over wobbly legs. Startled, Paul looked up at him with his mouth slightly agape, and in turn the man appraised them in that dopey, slightly unfocused manner unique to the inebriated. When he spoke his words wafted over them in beery gusts. Paul winced.

“Lennon? As in John Lennon?” the man demanded, swaying on his feet. He pointed a shaky finger at George, whose face remained impassive. “Why the hell are ya talkin’ about that fucker for? Oi, Pete! This boy here wants to talk about John Lennon!”

The rest of the men, all bearded and smelling somewhat like fish and the sea, had stopped to gather alongside their friend and were now crowded against George and Paul’s booth, observing the scene with vague drunken interest. An angry murmur swept throughout the room at the mention of John’s name. Amid the din, Paul heard a voice pipe up from somewhere near the back of the group, slurred and righteously loud.

“That fuckin’ tosser!” it roared, garnering a few assenting shouts from onlookers. “He’s fuckin’ barmy, he is!”

“Aye!” bellowed another voice, this time coming from the opposite corner of the room. “He smashed my nose in, he did — said I was lookin’ at ‘im funny!”

To Paul’s acute embarrassment, the small gathering had garnered the attention of the entire bar. Women swiveled around on their barstools and men peered over their cards with unabashed curiosity. Apparently having a vested interest in the subject at hand, some even crawled closer to air their grievances, faces red and obnoxious and beer sloshing over too-full glasses.

“He’s a right wanker!” one such woman shouted, voice shrill and piercing above the clamor. “I found him in my bathtub once, mumbling nonsense about Norway and firewood! Couldn’t sleep for weeks, after that. I think he crawled in through the bathroom window!”

Jeers of disapproval reverberated throughout the room, incessant like ocean waves, each more furious and worrisome than the last.

Raising a sweaty glass above his head, a smaller man added: “That bastard stuck pictures of naked ladies to my dog! Drew them ‘imself too, I’ll bet! I had to chase down the poor thing before the children saw it!”

Paul stared wide-eyed at George, unsure of what to do. There were more angry gasps and grunts from the crowd.

“That boy is certainly not right in the head,” said another woman. She was sitting in a booth near Paul and the proximity of her voice made him cringe. “He sits in his ivory tower all day, high above us all, and thinks he’s better than us. Well I’m tellin’ you now, it’s not true!”

A couple of men hollered in solidarity. Paul, at first wary of drawing attention to himself in any way, couldn’t remain silent any longer.

“An ivory tower?” he interrupted. “What do you mean?”

“The lighthouse, son,” a man supplied.

“Aye, how many years has he lived there now?” asked an older man, lines drawn on his forehead in deep grooves — reminiscent of what Paul imagined George would look like in a few years if he kept scowling so much. He continued: “Living all alone, with nary a soul in sight to speak with… It must do something to a man’s mind.”

The tavern had quieted while the man had spoken, and now Paul felt the mood turning hushed, conspiratorial, sober. Taking advantage of the pause, Paul raised an eyebrow at George and tipped his head in what he hoped was the direction of the exit, wishing that a benevolent prophet would part the crowd for them like water in an ocean. George widened his eyes and shook his head minutely, having a better view than Paul of any potential escape route and probably realizing that there was none. They were stuck, then, at least for the time being, listening to an entire town bemoan a bloke that Paul barely knew. He felt guilty, unsettled — even though he certainly didn’t initiate this conversation, it felt like he was looking through a cracked window of a stranger’s house, innocently but without permission.

“They say he’s waitin’ for his mum,” another man said suddenly, words like sandpaper against the brief silence. “She ran off with a seaman, you see, and now he’s waitin’ for ‘er to come back.”

“Or maybe it’s not his mum he’s waiting for,” someone snickered. “After all, you know what they say about those sailors.”

A number of men collapsed in guffaws, the atmosphere loosening considerably.

“Got a prime view, then, has he?”

“I’m just sayin’, that bloody bastard gets into so many fights, a man might think he wants to touch ya!”

Before the thread of that conversation could go any further, the original man turned his considerable bulk around once more to face Paul and George, slapping his meaty hands on the table and squinting at them intently.

“So tell me,” he said, breath blowing beerily over them, “what business do you lads have with John Lennon?”

Paul’s heart leaped in his chest at being addressed so abruptly. He idly scratched at the side of his hair, striving to appear unconcerned. “I think there’s been a mistake, actually,” he said, trying to project an aura of self-assuredness to convince the turbulent crowd. “I don’t know this Lennon bloke at all. At least, not really. I just ran into him briefly, y’know.”

“Well Christ help you if you ever run into him again!” the original man puffed, spitting on Paul in his vehemence. “That boy spells trouble, and he has only ever brought this town sufferin’ and strife. You’d be best to stay well clear of him, son.”

“Here, here!” a voice cried out, and Paul watched as the group collectively tipped their heads back and drank.

“The fact is,” the woman close to Paul said, voice prim and contemptuous, “wickies are slowly being replaced by machines nowadays, anyways. Pretty soon we’ll have no real reason for a lighthouse keeper at all, and we can be rid of him for good.” She reached across the booth and patted George’s head in a fond, almost motherly gesture. “Which means that you boys won’t have to worry about him for much longer, let’s hope.”

“Sure,” Paul said weakly.

He and George were silent as the crowd slowly dispersed, people leaving as quickly as they had appeared. The men turned back to their cards, the women turned back to their bourbon, and soon Paul and George were sitting alone again, listening to Jimmy Soul sing out wisdom from the morose little jukebox in the corner.

* * *

That night Paul’s dreams were vivid and harrowing: outwardly beautiful, even picturesque on the surface, but pervaded with a sense of inescapable dread that followed him even as he startled awake. In one dream, he was with his mother, and they were swimming at the beach like they used to when he was a little boy. The water was whisper-soft against his skin and the sun shone brilliantly, reflecting off the water and turning his mother’s stern eyes golden. Paul gazed up at her adoringly. She was trying to tell him something important, he could tell, but the ocean had suddenly turned rough and unruly, covering his face and ears until he could barely make out the shape of her through the waves. He tried to propel himself upwards, to break the surface of the water and suck in the cool air that he knew was waiting, but he lost his footing and was quickly yanked away by the current.

As Paul inhaled lungfuls of water — his heart tight in his chest, black spots clouding his vision — a jumble of people he knew floated almost comically in the blackness surrounding him: His little brother, pointing and laughing; his father looking on in disdain. His girlfriend, Dot, who clung to him and dragged him deeper into the murky depths; his manager at the Liverpool coil-winding factory yelling at him for being late. He could even make out the man from the tavern, sloshed and red-faced, staring at him snidely. All the while, Paul was being tugged further and further down into the bowels of the sea by an insistent current, his body reeling and rolling like he was Alice tumbling down, down, down the rabbithole.

If he concentrated enough, Paul could see the indistinct outline of a lighthouse through the blur of the water, the same one that he had seen when he had first arrived in the town. From atop its spindly tower, a light beamed in earnest, strong and steadfast, though slightly wobbly as it was obscured by the sea. Paul kicked towards it with all of his strength, muscles burning from both exertion and lack of oxygen. But no matter how hard he tried, the light remained just out of reach: a pale, untouchable orb like the moon looming large in the sky, taunting Renaissance scholars with no idea of the blackness in-between.

Before blind panic could completely set in, Paul woke up with a gasp, drenched in sweat and legs twisted hopelessly in his scratchy linen sheets. Reaching to turn on the lamp beside his bed, he sat up for a moment with his head in his hands. His chest heaved and a kaleidoscope of colours danced on the back of his eyelids. After a few moments, when he found that he couldn’t settle, Paul threw back his sheets and went to get dressed, hissing as his feet made contact with the cold wooden floors.

Stumbling outside, the air was a sharp and stinging distraction from his whirling thoughts. He bundled his jacket tighter around himself and made his way down the deserted street, knowing what he would find when he turned the corner towards the coast. The lighthouse, solid and sturdier than the one in his dreams, sat just where he knew it would be. It soothed something within him, and he watched it absently for a long time, smoking with his back pressed against the brick of the building behind him. If he squinted against the glare, he could even trick himself into believing that he could see a distant figure perched on the edge of the rocks, silhouetted in the light.


	3. Chapter 3

A few days later Paul woke early. He was yanked unceremoniously into consciousness by George, who had broken into his room at the crack of dawn babbling about freewheeling records and new Dylan and NEMS. 

“Alright, alright,” Paul groused, thoroughly peeved. “For Christ’s sake, give a man a moment to wake up.”

George stood silently in the corner of the room as Paul dressed, shifting his weight from left to right and smoking with a fervor. His brown eyes danced beneath his long fringe. As soon as Paul pulled on his last wooly sock he yanked him toward the door, talking a mile a minute about ‘Bob the beatnik bard’ and guitar techniques and lyricism. 

George liked to pretend to be aloof sometimes, silent and mysterious, but once you got him talking about music there was no shutting him up. Add to the fact that Bob Dylan’s latest album was apparently released and now in stores, Paul couldn’t get a word in edgewise. He sighed internally, thinking wistfully of a few more hours of sleep, but he couldn’t help but indulge George when he got into one of his moods. 

“C’mon then, there you go,” George said, impatiently pushing Paul onto the early-morning street. 

“Leave off,” Paul muttered. He blinked rapidly as pale sunlight poured over the both of them. The weather had been clouded and dreary for so long in the achromatic little village that he had thought that the sun had ceased to exist entirely. _God bless the North,_ Paul thought wryly. 

George had apparently received directions to NEMS from Astrid. It was presumably the same as the one in Liverpool, Paul supposed, which he and George frequented often. As far as chain music stores went, it was pretty gear, selling everything from the newest hits to the crowd-pleasing classics. Paul’s father had even purchased a piano from the shop in Liverpool once, proudly proclaiming that he had found it in one of those ‘North End Music Stores’. Mike and Paul had lightly teased him at his refusal to use NEMS, its common nickname, before a stern look had sent them scurrying upstairs. 

As it was, Paul and George took the short way to the shop, following Astrid’s directions along the curve of the main road, cobblestones delicately tracing the ocean’s edge. The salty tang of the sea served to put Paul’s mind at ease, and his heart brimmed with sudden contentment. George slumped alongside Paul, puffing pensively on a cigarette. Paul noticed that the light breeze had parted his hair in unruly tufts, and he was overcome with an unexpected wave of affection. 

“How’re ya doin', George?” he asked, nudging their shoulders together. “Haven’t seen much of you, lately.”

“Well, you’ve been pretty distracted,” Geroge drawled, shooting Paul a side-long look. 

Paul coughed. “Could say the same of you.”

A seagull swooped down in front of them to settle on a nearby rock, and they both watched it absently as they walked. George took a slow drag of his cigarette. 

“Could be. Astrid’s pretty cool — she’s teaching me all about photography and the like. You’d like her, I’d bet.”

“Not as much as you, I reckon.” Paul winked lecherously, and George broke out into a toothy grin.

“I know she’s not your type, Paul, but she’s really talented. I asked her to take photos of me the other day and they’re alright. I could probably even sell them one day for money — y’know, when we get famous then bust.”

“Oi!” Paul gasped, clutching at his chest. “Ye of little faith! Have you no confidence in my musical prowess?”

A dry bark of laughter. “Listen to this kid,” George said, brandishing his cigarette, “thinking he’s bloody Beethoven or some shite.”

“Aye, but I’ll only roll over if you ask nicely.”

“Get you!” 

Paul batted his eyelashes and then promptly stole George’s cigarette, bringing it to his mouth to take a drag.

“Can’t tame talent, Georgie.”

“Should get you in front of Astrid’s camera, then. Bet you’d make a pretty pin-up, like.”

“Now there’s an idea!” Paul looked at George with a slight smirk. “I’d sell for a lot more than your ugly mug, surely.”

George snorted and shoved Paul’s shoulder roughly, causing him to stumble a few steps before he regained his balance. Paul shot George another cheeky grin; George just rolled his eyes and lit another cigarette. They walked in silence for a moment, shoulders brushing companionably, before they veered sharply onto a narrow, touristy-looking street. Shopkeepers and other vendors dotted the sidewalk, busy and cheerful as they went about their morning routines. 

“Speakin’ of money,” George started, gazing longingly at a display of sugared pastries inside a shop window. “Could do with another gig soon, Paul. Me pockets are feeling a wee bit empty.”

Paul inhaled deeply, savouring the scent of butter and baked bread that wafted in the breeze, mocking them with its closeness. “Yeah, alright,” he agreed. “Dunno who’d wanna hear us play in this town, though. They don’t seem much like the rock ‘n’ roll types, do they?”

George coughed to cover a laugh, provoking a suspicious glance from a rather stern-looking lady passing them on the sidewalk. “Maybe not,” he choked. “Fuckin’ nobs, the lot of them.”

Paul tried to sush him, but the effect was ruined by him snickering as well. “Don’t know why they seem to like us so much,” he said, thinking back to the furious conversation at the tavern. “A coupla no-good stropouts, mucking about their town all day. Would’ve thought that they’d have given us the boot by now.”

“Aye,” Geroge flicked his cigarette onto the pavement. “But we’re not tapin’ pictures of naked ladies to dogs now, are we? We’re right gentlemen in their eyes.”

“Ha, ha,” Paul articulated, marveling yet again at the town delinquent that appeared to be John Lennon. Paul still hadn’t seen him as much as he’d heard about him, and so he had taken to playing his guitar facing the open balcony, listening (hoping) for any signs of commotion from the street below. As much as he wanted to focus on his songwriting, it could be dreadfully boring sometimes, especially with only himself to whom he could mumble breakfast-themed lyrics. 

Patting his own empty pockets, Paul considered George’s suggestion of finding work. “Well, if we do find a gig, let’s hope that they like us well enough to give us a few pity shillings.” He turned and pulled a tragic expression in George’s direction. “If we want enough money to get back home we might have to start sellin’ ourselves on the street, y’know — buskin’ and the like.”

“Musical prostitution, y’mean?” George joked.

Paul let out a theatrical sigh, thinking of his current diet of tea and cigarettes. “Could be a regular streetwalker, I suppose.”

“Don’t worry, son. I’d have you anytime.” 

Just then a small, vaguely familiar-looking bloke stumbled into the street ahead of them, laden with so many grocery bags that his face was almost completely obscured. From what Paul could see, his nose was large and his eyes were big and blue, and when they landed on George they instantly brightened in recognition. 

“Georgie!” the man called, trying to wave and almost dropping an armful of produce in the process. 

“Ringo!” George greeted in turn, uncharacteristically enthused. To Paul’s surprise, he immediately darted to Ringo’s side, grabbing a brown paper bag and receiving a grateful smile in return.

“Ta, mate,” Ringo said, smiling at George. “How’re ya?” Then, turning to Paul, “I don’t reckon we’ve met properly.” 

Paul accepted Ringo’s outstretched hand, newly freed from its bagged burden, and shook it somewhat awkwardly. He noticed with surprise that he was wearing multiple rings, the brisk-morning coldness of them biting his skin. 

“Paul McCartney,” he said. “Pleased to meet ya.”

“Richard Starkey, but you can call me Ringo,” he grinned, “and likewise.” Ringo looked at Paul in an oddly appraising manner, making him feel slightly exposed. Paul shifted on his feet, remembering the last time that he had looked into those perceptive eyes, standing on his little faux balcony at the inn. This time they were on level ground, and Paul found himself looking down as Ringo continued: “I’ve heard a lot about you.” Ringo quirked an eyebrow, and Paul started. 

“Really?” he asked, but Ringo was already turning to George. Apparently, as it was later explained to Paul, the two had already become well acquainted through Astrid. 

“I was just going to look at some plants and flowers,” Ringo was saying. “For the restaurant patio, you see. Wanna come with?” He was addressing George, who was listening raptly, mouth ticked upward in a slight smile. “It’s just that you were saying you loved gardening last week, and I have no idea what I’m doing!” Ringo gave a self-deprecating chuckle. 

George laughed along with him, obviously enthralled by the prospect of imparting his passion for flora and fauna and whatever else gardening happened to entail. “Sounds gear!” he assured Ringo, back now completely turned to Paul. 

Paul rolled his eyes and coughed pointedly, causing George to jump and look at him guiltily. Apparently remembering the original reason for their outing, George immediately started to back track. “I mean, I had just dragged Paul out here to go to NEMS, actually, so —”

“No, it’s alright,” Paul interrupted, thoroughly amused. As entertaining as it was to see George torn between his two _raison d'êtres_ , he figured that he could help him out this once. “Why don’t you stay and help Ringo,” he suggested, “and I’ll go on ahead to the shop. We can meet back at the inn to listen to the album after, yeah?”

George grinned, obviously relieved. “Ta, mate, that’d be fab,” he said. 

Ringo echoed him, slapping a jovial hand on Paul’s shoulder. “Thanks, Paul, you’re a real lifesaver,” he added, and then — inexplicably — he winked. “Enjoy the record shop, alright?”

“Ta,” Paul said, eyebrows drawing together. He watched as Ringo and George walked back in the direction they had originally come, catching wind of an emphatic, “It’s just the _lyrics,_ you know —” before they were around the corner and out of sight. 

Paul laughed to himself, shaking his head slightly. George had never made friends easily all throughout their school years — not because he was innately unpopular, but more because he mulishly refused to conform in any way — and Paul was glad to see that he had met someone that supported his passions. Ringo seemed nice enough, even if his behaviour toward Paul was more than a little puzzling. 

* * *

Paul continued to make his way down the street, knowing that the store, according to George, was located right at the very end of it. As he walked he started to whistle a jaunty little tune, making up the melody as he went. His good mood seemed contagious, and old ladies smiled at him as he strode past. He winked back at them. With the ocean behind him and the sun bright and dazzling in the sky, he felt peaceful and calm, memories of the grueling nightmares of the past week drifting away in the steady procession of dolled-up store fronts and a gentle breeze. For reasons Paul couldn’t exactly name, he felt at home in this strange little town, the offbeat lifestyle suiting him more than the daily drudgery that awaited him back in Liverpool. 

He pulled back the door of a building proudly marked NEMS, a cheery bell announcing his arrival in the shop. It was seemingly empty except for the muffled chords of a piano playing from a speaker. Something classical — too posh for Paul to name. 

“Hello?” he called, unsure if the shop was even properly open yet. 

“Hello!” a man’s voice yelled from somewhere deep inside the store. It was quickly followed by a dull thud and a muffled curse. “I’ll be right there!”

Paul barely registered the words, absorbed as he was in the sheer amount of music that surrounded him. Posters adorned the walls of the store until there was barely an inch of space between them, and records perched on neatly ordered shelves — arranged, Paul noticed, both alphabetically and by genre. In a trance, he reached out to touch the horned glasses of a nearby Buddy Holly poster. Paul felt like a sailor who had just returned home from months at sea, back on the shore and in his element. The whole store smelled like salt and sunlight. 

A few beats later, a man emerged to stand behind the check-out counter with a self-conscious smile and a breathless apology. He was dressed impeccably, wearing a dark suit and flaunting hair that curled atop his head in a fanciful wave. The only aspect of his appearance that belied the fact that he was working moments prior was a fine sheen of sweat that covered his forehead, which was quickly blotted away by a silk handkerchief. 

“I’m terribly sorry,” the man hastened to explain. “We normally don’t have customers this early in the day.” He pronounced his words in a careful, upper-class sort of way that Paul immediately disliked. 

“S’alright, mate, I was just lookin’ ‘round,” Paul said, playing up his Liverpool Scouse just because he could. The man — Brian, his fastidiously-pinned nametag read — merely smiled again, somewhat more strained than before. 

“May I help you find anything?”

“Actually,” said Paul, putting his hands into his jacket pockets, “I’m looking for a record. Just came out today. D’ya have the new Dylan?”

“Ah, yes,” Brian said, frowning, “Dylan…” He paused slightly, brow wrinkling, before flipping quickly through a heavy-looking notebook on the counter. His movements were sharp and precise. “Yes,” he said again. “Dylan. We should have got that one in today, actually.” He shot Paul another shy smile. “Let me see if I can find it.” With that Brian turned on his heel and disappeared into a back room, leaving Paul with free reign of the shop. 

Tearing his eyes off of the Holly poster, Paul immediately gravitated toward a large box of records, labeled A - F: ROCK ‘N’ ROLL. The Beach Boys, Brown, Cash, Charles, Cooke… His eyes instantly caught on an Elvis record that he didn’t own yet, the beautiful face of his idol grinning up at him idyllically. Without thinking, he picked it up to examine it closer, willfully choosing to ignore for a moment the fact that he barely had enough money to afford one record, let alone two. 

Elvis’ hair, dark and shiny beneath the album title, was predictably slicked back into a greasy quiff, and he wore his trademark all-American grin. Paul thought that he looked impossibly cool. Grinning like a crazed fanboy, he meandered around the other side of the display, the shiny vinyl clutched in his hand. Paul was so entranced by the wealth of music around him that he barely noticed the store bell jingle as another customer entered. 

He was, however, startled by the belligerent voice that bellowed “Brian!” into the shelved silence of the shop. “Where are ye, you poncy bastard!" 

Paul jumped, head whipping up at the inflection, unmistakably rough, unmistakably nasal, unmistakably familiar. He peered in between the shelves of records that stood between him and the door, taking in with wide eyes the fluffy hair, the noble nose, the shrewd eyes. Paul’s heart thumped wildly in his chest. 

Through Paul’s slivered view between records, he could see John Lennon stomp his way around the front entrance of the store. His eyes were stormy behind a pair of wide sunglasses, and a corduroy jacket fell lazily over his broad shoulders. His miles of legs were wrapped up in a pair of tight drainies that, Paul thought distantly, looked like they could’ve been painted on. They were closer than they had been since the day on the balcony, yet this time the record display mostly shielded Paul from view. 

Paul watched as John peered intently at the same Buddy Holly poster that he himself had looked at moments before, then barged over to the counter to examine Brian’s open notebook, flipping through the pages with an air of intense carelessness. He hadn’t noticed Paul yet. Tearing his eyes away, Paul forced himself to focus on the music in front of him — _K - S: JAZZ_ — with his head down to cover his flaming cheeks. In the midst of George’s nagging, he hadn’t even thought to comb his hair that morning. He probably looked like an utter nit. _Christ._

“Brian!” John called again, causing Paul to jump. He thrust the notebook aside, voice taking on a slight whinge. “I haven’t got all day, y’know!” 

As if summoned by John’s complaining, Brian popped back behind the counter in a huffing pile of records. His eyes landed on John immediately, and he set his teetering armful down in a hurry, reaching into his breast pocket to dab at his face affectedly. When he smiled at John his face was one of puppy-like delight. Paul supposed the two knew each other, judging by Brian’s flustered reaction and the way John leaned intimidatingly over the counter, forgoing personal space in favour of inspecting the newly-introduced vinyl. 

“Hello, John,” Brian greeted shyly. “It’s nice to see you.”

John looked up at Brian, pushing his sunglasses up to rest on top of his fringe, and scowled again. “Wish I could say the same, Eppy. But as you know it’s well past me bedtime and I’m dead knackered.”

Brian’s face, which had fallen upon hearing the first part of John’s greeting, quickly transformed into one of anxious concern. 

“Oh no, I can only imagine,” he fussed. “Tell me, what can I get for you?”

“The _Freewheelin’_ album. Just came out. D’ya have it?” John was back squinting at the stack of records, reaching over to pluck the one on top and bringing it closer for appraisal. 

Brian tittered. “You’re the second person who has asked me that this morning.”

“Yeah?” John grunted. His head was bent low as he examined the record, clearly disinterested. 

“Yes, actually…” Brian’s eyes scanned the store, locating Paul behind his record display fortification. He gestured him over with a wave, back to smiling in a nice, customer-service sort of way, but Paul’s brain was short-circuiting. He didn’t know why he was reacting so strongly to John Lennon, and he wished that he had more time to figure it out — he was caught painfully off-guard by this man, this day, this moment. He cursed George for abandoning him. He cursed himself for acting so daft. 

Figuring it would just be weird to ignore Brian completely, or equally sprint out of the store with nary a look back, Paul sucked in a deep breath to steel himself, thinking that it was about time to confront this John Lennon, to shake him by his shoulders and demand to know why looking at him felt like the whole world was tipping sideways. He ran a hand through his hair and vainly hoped that it fell into a semblance of a style. 

As Paul had feared, John looked up at him as soon as he emerged. His eyes, previously narrowed as he had studied the record, now grew as wide as beacons, undoubtedly taking in Paul’s morning stubble, his patchy leather jacket. Their eyes caught and held, and just like before Paul found himself unable to look away. Paul’s mouth grew dry; at the same time, John licked his lips. A tension immediately rose between them, causing Paul’s heart to stutter frantically against his ribcage. 

Even Brian seemed to be picking up on an odd vibration, glancing from John to Paul with an uneasy expression on his face. John seemed perfectly and purposefully unaware, looking at Paul with an unabashed, brazen intensity that made his insides curl. 

Breaking the spell, Brian finally produced the album Paul had requested, the sound of it thudding against the counter like a shock of cold water being dumped over his head. Paul reluctantly turned away from John, yet he still continued to cut an insistent figure in his peripheral vision, mere feet away and leaning imposingly against the far side of the counter. Paul swore that he could feel the weight of his gaze on his profile, heavy and assessing. 

“I took the liberty of wrapping it for you,” Brian said, gesturing somewhat awkwardly at the record. “Although now I see that you’re buying two…”

Paul followed Brian’s gaze down to where he was still holding the Elvis album, fingers pressed white against the edges like he was gripping a liferaft. He felt his cheeks flush in embarrassment — he hadn’t realized that he was still holding on to it.

“Uh, no, actually,” he stammered. “Forgot I was carrying it. I’ll just go put it back.”

John, who had been still and silent throughout the brief exchange, came to life from the other end of the counter.

“I’ll take it for ye,” he proposed, and Paul blinked in surprise. This was the first time John had spoken to him. His voice was low and almost hoarse; Paul barely managed to suppress a shiver. 

“Ta, thank you,” he said, his own voice coming out blessedly casual. Their eyes snagged again, and Paul was startled to see that John’s eyes had an inexplicably mischievous glint to them. 

Not knowing what to make of it, Paul stepped forward and carefully relinquished the record to John’s outstretched hand, noticing in a far-off way his calloused fingers, the ink-stained skin. _An artist’s hand_ , he thought distractedly. 

However, rather than walking around to the other end of the store to return the record as Paul had expected, John merely tugged open his corduroy jacket and slipped the record into the small space between his belt and t-shirt, ensuring that it was tucked snugly away from Brian’s prying gaze. Paul stared in confusion at Elvis’ toothy smile pressed into the solid line of John’s waist, uncannily similar to the wicked grin John shot at him as he did it. Paul’s eyes narrowed. _What the fuck?_

Large, calloused hands nimbly re-fastened the jacket buttons, and the record vanished from sight in a sweep of corduroy and thievish glee. John stared at Paul challengingly, eyes half-lidded and mouth tilted up in a smirk. No alarm bells went off, no police stormed the store, yet John’s eyes were loud and daring — daring Paul to say something, goading Paul to draw attention to what he’d done. Paul simply blinked, perplexed and more than a little wary. Incredibly, Brian didn’t seem to have noticed, too busy punching in the numbers for Paul’s purchase.

“Maybe you can come back for that record some other time,” Brian suggested, sliding Paul the record and a jumble of change. “May I ask how long are you in town for?”

“‘M not sure,” Paul, ripping his eyes away from the now-squarelike jut of John’s waist to answer. “A mate and I’ve been —”

The shop bell jingled, and Paul turned around to see John’s retreating form, looking both ways before walking jauntily across the street in quick, long-legged strides. The door swung closed behind him, and Paul felt a sharp crash of adrenaline in his chest, which rapidly seeped into a nauseating simmer of disappointment. He was confused, he had a million questions to ask the man, and they had only exchanged two sentences. And, what’s worse, the bastard had stolen Paul’s Elvis record. Now he had no chance of buying it at all. 

Brian watched the emotions flicker across Paul’s face, a perceptive shine lighting his eyes. “Ignore John,” he advised. “He gets like this sometimes. Impetuous.” A gentle smile crept over Brian’s face. “But I can think of no one else I like better.”

Paul lifted a disbelieving eyebrow. “You’d be the only one,” he observed wryly.

“Yes,” Brian agreed. “John is a man to reckon with. Though, mostly, I believe that he is rather misunderstood.”

Paul digested this quietly, watching as the man in question swept around the street corner and out of sight. He brought his thumb to his mouth, absently biting on a hangnail.

“But you were saying?” prompted Brian, jolting Paul back into the present.

“Sorry, what?”

“Your plans in town.”

“Oh, right. Sorry.” Paul jerked his hand away from his mouth, snapping his gaze back to Brian. “A mate and I have been traveling across England during the break, playing small gigs and the like.” Paul tried to focus on Brian’s face, but imprinted on his eyelids were Elvis’ white teeth and corduroy and smudged fingers. “Since there’s nowhere to go from here but the ocean, we figure that this is our last stop — we’ll just stay as long as the money lasts, I suppose.” 

Brian was looking at him with renewed interest. “You play music?”

“A bit. Guitar, mostly, and piano — trumpet too.”

Brian laughed. “That’s marvelous!” he enthused. 

Paul twitched a tight-lipped smile. “Me da taught me.”

Brian’s eyebrows furrowed. “You know,” he began, staring at Paul assessingly. “I was thinking of hiring a music teacher to run lessons out of the shop. You should consider applying.”

Paul’s heart stuttered at the thought. “I dunno about that,” he said lightly. “I’m not trained, or anything.”

Brian waved a dismissive hand. “It’s no matter. Music comes from the heart, not from theory. Just think about it,” he pressed.

Not wanting to come off as rude, Paul promised to consider it, even though he knew for a fact that he wouldn’t be staying long enough to hold down any sort of job. He began to edge his way towards the door. 

“Anyroad, ta very much for the record…” he trailed off.

“Brian.”

“Brian,” Paul smiled gratefully. “‘M looking forward to hearin’ it.” His Liverpool accent was slipping out more and more the longer he spoke.

Brian watched him leave, an amused smile lingering on his lips. “I do hope you’ll be back soon, Paul,” he said warmly. “Take care.”

Without pausing to consider how Brian knew _his_ name, Paul was out of the shop and onto the street, the Dylan record snug in his hand and the sun bright on his face. He only paused for a moment, breathing in the sharp, sea-tinged air, before setting a brisk pace towards the direction of the inn. He wanted to get back as soon as possible so that he could tell George about the record-nicking incident, knowing that he’d get a laugh out of the sheer cheekiness. 

* * *

His thoughts spun around his head, distracting him terribly, so he was more than surprised when a rough voice called out to him when he was barely halfway down the street. 

“Did you tell him, then?”

The hairs on the back of Paul’s neck stood up at the warm inflection. John Lennon was leaning lazily against a brick wall of a shop, smoking a cigarette and watching him in a half-lidded way that made Paul feel slightly off-kilter.

“Dunno what you mean,” he managed to reply, caught off guard but trying not to show it. 

John scoffed. “Don’t be thick,” he said, flicking his cigarette to the pavement. “The record. Did ya tell Brian I took it, or not?”

“I didn’t.” Paul met John’s eyes, piercing and peering out from behind an auburn fringe. 

“Well, why not! I’ve got a reputation to uphold, y’know.” John crossed his arms in a way that was ostensibly intended to look imposing, but merely made him look like a petulant child. 

Paul smiled despite himself, crossing his arms in turn so that they looked like mirror reflections. “Aye, and a nasty one at that,” he remarked, noticing the way that John’s eyes briefly widened, then shuttered into a sneer. 

“You what? Nevermind that gossip; whatever you’ve heard is pure rubbish.”

“‘M just saying, I wouldn’t have been surprised if you'd lit poor Elvis’ face on fire while you were at it.”

John looked doubly offended at that. “I would sooner chop off me own arm — fuckin’ sacrilege, that is!” He reached into his pocket and fished out a pack of cigarettes. Looking at Paul over the flicker of his lighter, he asked, “Are you a fan, then?” 

Paul shrugged. “He’s alright.”

John tilted his head back and laughed, Paul observing the smooth column of his throat, the jut of his Adam’s apple. Paul found that he liked the way John looked at him: intense and impish, as if he was searching for ways to look past Paul’s bluff. 

“‘He’s alright,’” John mimicked. “What bollocks!” Quick fingers danced deftly along jacket buttons, and then John was brandishing the album in front of Paul’s face. “Only a true fan of the King would be caught buyin’ this shinin' LP.”

“Ta, thanks for that by the way,” Paul said, raising an eyebrow. “I was gonna come back and buy that, and now you’ve gone and cocked up my plans.”

“‘M just keepin’ Brian on his toes.” 

“More like you’re keepin’ his merchandise under your clothes.”

John huffed a laugh. His eyes on Paul were sharp and contemplating. He took a drag of his cigarette, eyes drifting to a point beyond Paul’s shoulder. “Come back to mine and listen to it.”

Paul blinked. “Come again?”

“I’ve a record player,” John said, eyes darting back to Paul. “And I’m free before the sun goes down. Come listen to it then.”

Paul looked at John, the way his fingers itched along the length of his cigarette, a tremble of movement that was almost imperceptible if you weren’t looking closely enough. Paul was.

“Alright,” he found himself saying, words shaking loose before he had fully contemplated them. “I’ll be there.”

John looked pleased, but it seemed like he was trying very hard to hide it. He tucked the record away with a flourish, his waist looking decidedly less tapered than it had before. 

“Gear. I live — ” 

“I know where you live,” Paul interrupted, then blushed as he realized the implication of his words. “I mean, I’ve heard — the gossip, y’know. Bloody hard to miss, isn’t it?”

John grinned. “I’m as blind as a bat and I can always find it.” He pushed off from the wall, stamping out his cigarette with the toe of his boot. The gentle morning sun streaked across his face, and he squinted as he looked at Paul. “I’ll look out for ye,” he promised, and then without further dithering he set off down the street, long-legged and imperious. 

The cigarette smoldered against the pavement, twisted and trampled and emitting a faint ashy glow. Paul felt the warmth in his chest as if he had swallowed it whole, the gasping heat curling hot and tangled somewhere behind his ribcage.


	4. Chapter 4

Paul arrived at the lighthouse right after supper. Up close, the tower seemed much more imposing than it seemed from a distance: the wooden door was worn and rusted, a relic of the sea’s gusting sighs, while the white, impenetrable expanse of bricks above it lurched high into the mid-afternoon sun. Paul’s meager supper of meat and mash churned in his stomach.

 _Perhaps this wasn’t a good idea,_ he thought, becoming increasingly apprehensive the longer he gazed at the grooved wood of the door. Just beyond the base of the lighthouse, the ocean waves crashed riotously against the shoreline. Paul felt a little queasy. He had ignored George’s warnings, repeated in his slow, sensible drawl throughout the course of the afternoon; wanting to believe that John was perfectly normal, if only a little bit misconstrued. _He likes Elvis,_ he had explained, as if that fact alone made him less of a potential nutter. He had ditched George back at Ringo’s restaurant, head full of rock ‘n’ roll and half-lidded eyes. 

Now Paul felt like a fool on a hill. He was probably going to be murdered any second, and he utterly deserved it. 

Paul was about to turn on his heel and go crawling back to the inn, John Lennon be damned, when the heavy door to the lighthouse swung open. The metal hinges groaned in complaint. A mop of auburn hair with horn-rimmed glasses peered out from behind the entryway, and John’s face, which was furrowed as he blinked against the bright sunlight, smoothed as soon as his eyes found Paul. A shiver went up Paul’s spine; from nerves or something else, he couldn’t tell. John had shed his jacket from the morning and was now leaning against the doorway in a black t-shirt and his ridiculously tight drainies. The fabric was slightly wrinkled, which made Paul think vaguely of strewn clothing and unmade bed sheets. Paul wondered if John had just woken up from a kip. 

“You came,” John said, his nasal brogue coated with something that sounded like surprise. Paul’s pulse quickened.

“You thought I wouldn’t?”

John waved a dismissive hand. “Brian is a lonely old fuck in the wee hours of the morning. Thought I dreamed ye up.”

Despite himself, Paul laughed. “And what? You also thought that Elvis just magically appeared in your trousers?”

“Stranger things have happened.” John waggled his eyebrows salaciously. Such antics were surely not meant to be arousing, yes Paul’s chest tightened all the same. Stranger things, indeed. 

“Anyroad. Glad ye found the place alright, an’ all.” John pushed himself off of the door frame and made his way into the lighthouse. Paul hesitated a moment, looking at John’s retreating form. The residual anxiety of his earlier indecision reared its head, and Paul felt as though the choice to follow John inside was somehow momentous, irreversible. 

Noting Paul’s hesitance, John looked over his shoulder quizzically. Something undefinable flickered across John’s expression before his mouth twisted into a sneer. “Are ye comin’ in, son? Or are ye just gonna stand there and ogle me arse all day?”

His words were enough to jolt Paul out of whatever reverie he had fallen into. “Bit hard not to, really,” he muttered on a whim, testing the waters, and watched dizzily as the tips of John’s ears turned red. 

“Alright, that’s enough, now,” John huffed in what Paul thought could equally be amusement or annoyance. With one last speculative, lingering look at Paul, John abruptly turned and strode inside, leaving Paul to breathlessly trail after him. 

Paul blinked as his eyes adjusted to the dimness of inside. Evidently, the lighthouse used every ounce of its reserves to emit light rather than absorb it, as the hallway leading from the front entrance was strewn with nothing but dust and shadows. Perhaps concerned that Paul would actually change his mind and leave, John reached behind him to grab at Paul’s jacket sleeve, guiding him forward with a strong hold on his wrist. “Come ‘ead, then.”

Paul followed blindly, heart almost audible as it thudded against his chest. John’s grip around his wrist was firm and electric, and Paul’s skin prickled, hyper-aware, at the pressure. At the end of the hallway there was a spiral staircase, and as Paul craned his neck upward, he could scarcely see where it led. 

“Bloody hell, John,” he marvelled, turning to face John and inexplicably finding them nose to nose. “More of a dark house than a light one, innit?”

“Oh, he thinks he’s funny!” John’s breath smelled like smoke and tea. 

“Funny in the head, maybe.” Paul's eyes were slowly adjusting to the dim lighting, and he could just faintly make out the smooth planes of John’s face. “You’re not actually meaning for me to follow you into the shadows, are you? Seems fairly murderous.”

“Well how the fuck did ye expect you’d get up there?” John asked, tone affronted. He was still holding onto Paul’s wrist, his grip loose and absent, almost as if he’d forgotten that he was doing it. “Anyroad, I would never murder you on our first get-together. I’m trying to make a good first impression and all, y’see.”

Paul quirked an eyebrow at him. “And how d’ya suppose you’re doing so far?”

“Could be doing better, I reckon. Shall I let you stare at me bum a little while longer?” 

Paul’s heart did a strange little leap at John’s expression, which was naughty and childlike. He gasped in mock affront.

“Get you! I daresay that’ll have to wait for our second rendez-vous.”

“Plannin’ on knowin’ me better then, are ye?” John’s corresponding smile, which was soft and slightly fuzzy in the low light, seemed to juxtapose all of the cruel tales told about him. Paul thought of Brian’s advice that morning, spoken among the dusty shelves of the record shop: _He is rather misunderstood._

Paul began to grin too. “Depends if the town rumours are true.” 

At that John’s hold tightened fractionally around his wrist, and Paul tried to even out his breathing. The feeling of being so close to John was something close to intoxicating. Paul wondered again at his body’s strange reaction to the other man: his heart was still stuttering frantically, as if he had been running at a dead sprint; his palms were cold and clammy. Half-hysterically, Paul mused whether John could feel his heartbeat through the leather of his jacket. 

Unaware of Paul’s plight, John dismissed his worries with a mighty scoff. “Everything was only ever for a laugh, really. Nothin’ to do in this fuckin’ town,” he muttered. 

“Except break into people’s bathrooms?”

“And listen to Elvis.” John began to manhandle Paul toward the staircase. “Course, you can’t do that without me now, can you?”

At Paul’s answering shrug, John's grin grew even wider. Paul’s breath caught in his throat as John’s hand found the small of his back, the heat of it bleeding through his leather jacket as it propelled him up, up, up the wooden steps. The silence that enveloped them was peculiar in its intimacy, only shattered by the huff of their breath and the dull thud of their feet on the staircase. Paul thought briefly of George, wondering what he’d think about Paul following _John fuckin’ Lennon,_ town delinquent, up into the inky blackness of his ivory tower. He smiled to himself as he pictured George’s face, shaking his head in a way that said that he was disappointed yet not surprised. 

Just as Paul began to think that they were both stuck climbing in spirals forever, a trickle of daylight began to emanate from somewhere high above him, and as it grew brighter he found himself stumbling into a wide, round room, John following close behind him. Paul’s eyes struggled to adjust as he gazed around. Everywhere he looked, in every possible nook and cranny, there were books and records, posters and art, even more books and records. Large salt-streaked windows were tucked within chipped brick walls, offering a glimpse of the seemingly boundless stretch of sea outside. Paul blinked in wonderment. He wasn’t sure what he expected when John had invited him to the lighthouse — cold brick walls, minimal furniture, dark hallways, to be sure — but this room was the opposite: Cozy, eclectic, oozing with bits and bobs and personality. He looked at John in wonderment. 

“Oh, John —” 

“No dead bodies, then?”

Paul’s mouth fell open as he took in the multitude of bookshelves, sagging under a library’s weight of paperbacks and various knicknacks. Across the room the sun was setting, painting the posters and records that haphazardly adorned the walls in hues of yellow and red. A record crooned from a nearby table — not Elvis, but something soft and dreamy. Beside them a beat-up guitar leaned up against a rickety easel, which was holding up a canvas filled with various scribbles and whimsical cartoons. Paul’s heart leapt at the sight, feeling as if he was being let in on something private. 

“Welcome to my humble toad,” John announced theatrically, his words coated in a faux-posh accent. Despite his tone, his brown eyes held a strange note of hesitance, and he watched Paul with a look of weighted anticipation. 

Paul was at a loss for words. He continued to take it all in, awestruck, before his eyes landed on a grand piano that sat regally in the corner of the room. It was a Bechstein, if Paul had to guess, tempting him forward with green varnish and chipped engravings. He was helpless to resist. Paul crossed the room, drawn like a magnet, and opened the lid with a thud of reverence. Specks of dust danced in front of his face, childlike and curious, until a shaky exhale sent them scattering. 

“It’s a bit dodgy, that,” John said, suddenly appearing at Paul’s shoulder. “Came along with the furniture and such. Can’t get a good G sharp out no matter how much I bash away on it.”

In spite of the dusty exterior, the piano keys were snow-white and smooth, as if they were played often. Placing his fingers on the keyboard, Paul experimentally pressed down on three notes. A G sharp rang throughout the room, clear and bell-like. 

“Well if it isn’t Paul the prodigy,” John exclaimed, visibly impressed. He looked down at the piano with a look of betrayal. “I reckon this means that she’s shifted loyalties.”

Paul laughed up at him, sitting down gingerly on the piano bench to test its strength. “Don’t be daft; you just have to get a feel for it.” 

This was more Paul’s element. He danced his fingers along the keys, feeling soothed, before launching into an improvised version of “Twenty Flight Rock”. He looked up at John teasingly. Paul didn’t necessarily want to show off, but resisting the pull of music was like fighting against an undertow, and he wanted to impress John all the same. In a fit of inspiration, he slid his elbow across the keyboard, launching into his best Little Richard routine. 

John looked like he was trying very hard not to smile. “Oi! Enough of that, now,” he said over the clamour of the music, running a hand through his hair. “We’re supposed to be listenin’ to Elvis, not stealin' his show.”

When Paul merely grinned, John rolled his eyes and pushed him none-too-lightly out of the way, sitting beside him with a creak on the bench. Paul paused his antics to send John a challenging glance, one eyebrow arched high on his forehead. With a smirk that made Paul’s chest tighten in anticipation, John cracked his knuckles and began to rock out a jaunty piano version of “Come Go With Me”. Paul grinned in recognition, heart fluttering in pleasure at the choice of song. Pure doo wop, the really good stuff, reminiscent of his Teddy boy days. Thinking quickly, Paul added a baseline, the low notes falling into perfect synchrony with John’s rhythmic verses. Paul marvelled at how strangely easy it all felt, a push and pull like the movement of the tide. 

Music filled the small room until it was brimming with waves of sound, and in his peripheral vision Paul could see John watching him with a look of pleased delight, his hard features thoroughly transformed as he swept his fingers along the keys. Determined to focus on the music, and not the man he had found himself making it with, Paul quickly looked down, but found himself yet again entranced by John’s hands. Large and apparently perpetually ink-stained, they moved with a fluid grace that struck Paul as inexplicably beautiful. Despite himself, he stumbled over a couple of beats, and John laughed, unaware of Paul’s inner distraction. 

The song ended with a reluctant trickle of notes and petered-out giggles, and John and Paul were left sitting next to each other in abrupt silence, regarding each other quietly: Paul wide-eyed and unsure, John with an air of startled scrutiny. Paul was thrown back to the morning at the inn, watching a boy from his balcony with shrewd eyes and a downward turn to his lips. How different John seemed seated within the walls of his lighthouse, still guarded but slightly less so, as if an outside barrier had crumbled to the ground. 

Unsure of what was happening, but loath to look away, Paul brought his fingers absently to his lips. Something shifted in John’s gaze, and he moved incrementally closer, until the fabric of their trousers brushed softly together. 

Suddenly, Paul felt like it was all too much — too easy, too much like he’d done this with John before, too much like pieces falling into place. All at once, the feeling of being so close to John was confusing, unbearable; he abruptly stood from the bench, leaving John blinking owlishly up at him through his glasses.

Breathing deeply to slow his racing heart, Paul strode over to a bookshelf, pretending to examine each volume carefully in order to cover up his uneasiness. In what was quickly becoming a habit, John followed him. They stood side by side in front of the shelf, tension wafting thick and palpable between them. 

“I’ve heard ye practicin' out by the docks,” John said, the first to break the silence. His voice was low and warm.

Paul’s breath hitched. “Trying to reinstate that murder front?”

John barreled on, unperturbed. “That’s how I knew you were like me,” he confided. “Ye sounded like ye knew music. Like ye know music like I do.”

“Is that so?” Paul turned to face John more fully, noticing in a far-off way how the setting sun made his hair look particularly auburn. His heart stuttered in his chest.

“Your observational skills are wasted in the lighthouse industry, mate,” Paul said with intentional levity, trying to ease them back into less dangerous waters. He didn’t want to think about his music right now — especially when his own dreams of stardom had proved foolish, reduced to a mere jaunt to the seaside, a far cry from the stadium tour that he and George had envisioned as naive young lads. 

John was not dissuaded. “I’m right though, aren’t I?” he pressed, waving a hand impatiently toward the old Bechstein. “This just proved it. Yer a musician, you are.”

Paul’s skin flushed. He loved his music — needed it, even — but the future heralded a lifeboat for just one, and Paul had reconciled the fact that he had to leave his guitar behind. He didn’t expect John to understand. _(Even though_ , his pesky inner voice whispered, _playing music with John had felt like he would)._ But Paul was not prone to flights of forbidden fancy. He could feel the weight of the past press between them. 

“I’m a factory worker,” Paul corrected. A fact that he had conveniently forgotten, travelling with George toward the outskirts of the unknown. Saying it out loud felt like a cold splash of water poured over his head. 

John’s thick eyebrows furrowed. His eyes on Paul’s were squinted and intense. “If ye are, that’s by choice.”

Paul took an involuntary step back. The spines of John’s books, ridged and dusty, pressed insistently into his own. “And what about you, John?” he asked, determined to deflect. “Why are you in this brick tower, instead of down on the ground, playing music to the masses? You certainly have the talent for it.”

John blinked. “Had to make a choice meself, didn’t I?” 

Without Paul noticing, they had again drifted closer together than was surely normal. Paul’s breath hitched. “Between what?” he asked, his words a quiet exhale between them. 

Before he could blink, John leaned forward, reaching for something just beyond Paul’s shoulder. The too-close scent of him reminded Paul simultaneously of something bitter and sweet, like sea salt and sugared tea. Paul’s eyes fluttered closed, and he shivered involuntarily as John’s voice rumbled dark and low in his ear. 

“The rock ‘n’ roller and the poet,” John murmured. “The softie and the macho. The Brando…” John pulled back to look at Paul’s face mischievously, “And the Wilde.”

John dropped a heavy book into Paul’s hands. Paul started forward in order to catch it, his fingers clamping down on hard-worn pages. A quick glance at the cover revealed its title: _The Picture of Dorian Gray._ Paul swallowed. Did that mean…?

He didn’t dare hold his breath. “And what have you chosen?”

John’s eyes jumped from the book to Paul’s face. He seemed to deliberate for a moment, and then all at once his face erupted into a wide smirk. “I’ve not decided yet.”

Paul was left holding the book as John abruptly strode over to a window, looking out at the sea with an indecipherable expression on his face. Paul felt a chill whisper along his skin, even though the room was still bright and warm with sunlight. At his place by the window, the orange tones made the angles of John’s face stand out in even sharper relief. 

“Although if we’re getting technical, I’m more on the Wilde side of the spectrum, y’know,” John continued suddenly, speaking to the sea. “Locked up in some third-rate prison and the like. Crazier than Ringo’s Auntie Jessie.” He gave Paul a side-long glance. “‘Course, if you show that side in this town, yer as good as dead.”

Paul wasn’t sure what to say to that. He certainly had no doubt that, if given the opportunity, the townsfolk would have John strung up by his ankles for all of his shenanigans. 

“You really think that you’re insane?” he asked instead, letting the book dangle heavily from one hand. 

John rounded on him instantly. “Does that bother you?”

Paul blinked. “I reckon we’ve all gone a bit loony,” he said. “S’just a part of growing up, isn’t it?”

“Or a part of going down,” John corrected. He scoffed, but Paul’s answer seemed to please him. 

Another moment passed in silence between them, but it was a comfortable sort of quiet. Paul felt as though he had passed some sort of test. Instead of dwelling on the strangeness of it all, Paul took the opportunity to observe John inconspicuously, gazing at his lean, long-legged figure through the sweep of his eyelashes. With his smooth, pale skin and sharp, Roman nose, John resembled one of those Aristocratic figures depicted between the pages of a grammar school textbook: Austere, commanding, untouchable. Probably unlike any one of those figures, John could obviously play music like he was someone out of Paul’s Teddy boy dreams. 

Looking at him, Paul couldn’t help but feel like he was just a little bit fucked. Where had John Lennon been all his life? Where had he been when Paul was awash in grand old Liverpool, drowning and miserable?

The sudden click of a lighter startled Paul out of his spiralling contemplations. John held out a newly-lit cigarette toward Paul, expression unreadable. “Fancy a cig?”

“Ta, mate.” Their fingers tangled briefly as John handed the cigarette over, sending tiny shivers down Paul’s spine. 

They each took a drag in unison, the smell of smoke suffusing the air, regarding each other steadily over the glowing embers. The air was still tense between them, but the atmosphere had loosened considerably, and John’s eyes grew warmer the longer their gazes held. It should have been odd, these unexpected, exploratory pauses, but instead they felt as natural as breathing, and Paul almost felt embarrassed about his wave of panic by the piano. The nicotine burned like a familiar balm in Paul’s lungs; with a start he realized that John smoked the same cigarettes that he did. 

The sun was still steadily sinking outside. After a moment, John looked toward it, clearing his throat. A hint of something like hesitance flickered over his expression before it passed like parting clouds. “C’mon,” John said, carelessly flicking ash onto the dark wooden floor. “I want to show ye somethin’.” 

_What,_ Paul thought, _could there possibly be beyond this?_ The prospect of leaving the snug, messy room, dripping with sunset reds and oranges, seemed oddly repellent. Gazing around at all its quirks and oddities, the books, the piano, the old couch with what looked like a strawberry-print blanket thrown haphazardly over its side, Paul wondered what other surprises the lighthouse could reveal. But when John brushed past him in quick, decisive strides, heading for the back corner of the room where another staircase clambered up into a heavy darkness, Paul’s feet started moving as if propelled by an invisible force. He briefly paused to set John’s book on a cluttered coffee table, careful not to disturb any of the trinkets. 

“Dead bodies?” Paul queried, only half-joking. He looked up to where John was waiting. 

John merely snorted, but underneath it Paul thought he detected something warm and playful. “Wouldn’t ye like to know.”

“I’m a curious lad,” Paul rejoined, unabashedly eyeing the curve of John’s arse as they thudded up yet another series of worn steps. It really was hard not to. 

John looked over his shoulder, amused. “Learned no lessons from the cat, did ye?”

“I’m more of a dog person, myself,” Paul deadpanned. 

John huffed a laugh, the rough bite of it echoing throughout the stairwell. Paul smiled to himself in the darkness, half-giddy at the sound, and tried to focus on not tripping over his own feet.

Eight, nine, ten steps later and they were emerging up into a small dome, surrounded on all sides by panes of glass that revealed the red-rimmed sky beyond. For the second time that afternoon, Paul found himself speechless at the sight before him. On one side of the room, the tiny town seemed to stretch before them like a model train set, the roads twisting around the buildings and houses like delicately painted tracks. On the other side sprawled an endless expanse of blue, blue sea. Paul felt dizzy at the sight. 

In the center of the room sat a large object, clear and ovular. _The light_ , Paul surmised, which he had watched from a distance all those nights ago. 

John observed him carefully, still and sharp-eyed. Paul, without realizing, had gripped his forearm to steady himself, and now he released it as if it burned. 

“Sorry,” Paul muttered, feeling his cheeks warm. He made his way to the opposite end of the room, pausing to press his palm against the cool glass. Even facing away from John, Paul could still see his reflection in the glass, persistent and potent. “It’s beautiful, innit?”

John hummed his agreement, coming to stand beside Paul. “S’not bad,” he agreed amiably, following Paul’s gaze to the tiny specks that comprised the seaside town. In the distance, Paul could see the long and winding road that had inadvertently led George and Paul right to the lighthouse door. He found himself thinking briefly of Liverpool. What would it look like, from such dizzying heights? Paul imagined that all of his problems would seem quite small. 

Suddenly, standing shoulder to shoulder with John, at the toppermost of the poppermost, Paul felt renewed. All at once, something tender and almost romantic bubbled inside him, and Paul felt awash in a feeling of exhilarated freedom. “Oh, sceptred isle! I can’t believe you live here,” he said in a rush, unable to contain himself. “Seems impossible, like something out of a novel — not real life, y’know.”

John turned to Paul with a look of wry amusement, eyebrows twitching. “I reckon yer out of practice, son,” he said teasingly. “When I was your age, I believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast.”

Paul scoffed, shoving John lightly. “Steady on! Where’s that even from?”

“Lewis Carroll,” John admitted. 

“Do you always speak in literary references?” 

“Only to bed the birds,” John said, grinning cheekily, and Paul flushed. 

“ _Y_ _ou’re_ impossible,” he complained, but John’s smile only grew wider. 

“But you believe me! That means you’ve five more things to go,” John announced. 

With a dry huff Paul turned away to face the window, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. Talking with John almost felt as easy as playing music with him: The banter flowed between them quick and unimpeded, propelled by some underlying tension that Paul couldn’t quite name. He had never experienced anything like it. John was witty, and fast with it; brash and beguilingly literate. Paul’s mates back in Liverpool — hell, even the birds — felt as drab as his childhood council house in comparison. 

Paul toyed absently with his bottom lip. “How’d you end up here, then?” he asked suddenly, turning to face John. “The lighthouse, I mean. Does it belong to your family?”

John looked at him as if he had suggested something completely outrageous. “Family? You must be jokin’,” he said, jerking his head toward the red-tinted sea. In the glass reflection, Paul could see a frown settling heavily over his features.

“You didn’t inherit it, then?” Paul pressed. He gestured out of the window, to the houses, to the sea. “It just seems like an odd job to fall into, I suppose.”

John bit out a bitter laugh, pacing the width of the room. He rooted around in his jacket pockets and pulled out a cigarette, lighting it with quick, aborted movements. “I came out here by meself, on me own, ‘cause I wanted to.” John’s cigarette punctuated the statement, brandished in his hand like a dagger. 

“You don’t get along with your folks?” Paul asked, brow creasing. 

John scowled. “Would be easier to get along with them if they were still alive.” 

Paul’s skin went cold. “Cor, really?” he blurted, then immediately cringed. 

“Aye,” John said, taking a long drag of his cigarette. He shot a furtive glance at Paul, then perhaps noticing he didn’t have a smoke himself, began lighting another one. The lighter sparked once, twice, and then John handed it over to Paul, who accepted it gratefully. When their fingers brushed again, John cleared his throat. “Me da left when I was a baby. So did me mam.”

Paul winced in sympathy. “Jesus, John. I’m sorry.”

“Well there’s no need to get weepy about it.” John crossed his arms over his chest, looking over at the swirling water below them as he spoke. Paul noticed that despite his brusqueness, John could hold himself very still when he wanted to. “Me Aunt Mimi took me in. With me Uncle George, too.” John’s voice cracked on his uncle’s name. “But he went and died on us, and then a couple of years later me mam as well. Hit by a copper, sloshed off his arse.” John’s hand shook ever-so-slightly as he brought the lit cigarette back to his mouth. He inhaled, then coughed awkwardly. “Sorry,” he said into the ensuing silence, looking somewhat embarrassed. “S’not much fun to talk about.”

The smoke curled sweet and thick around them. Paul’s heart ached. _Tit for tat,_ he thought, and took a deep breath. “I still think about her too, sometimes,” he said quietly. “My mother. I’m dead scared sometimes that I’ll start to forget her face.”

John glanced at him, eyes half-lidded and golden in the dwindling light. “And have ye?” he asked, voice low and rough. 

“Not yet,” he said honestly, voice equally as soft. “You find ways to remember.” The urge to go over to John, to collide the space that separated them and rest a comforting hand on his tense, broad shoulder, was almost overwhelming. He crossed his arms over his chest instead. 

“She taught me how to play the banjo,” John said abruptly, a note of nostalgia leaking into his voice. “When I started with a guitar, it took me ages to realize the chords didn’t transfer. ‘What crap!’ I said. I reckoned all strings were the same.” 

Paul blinked. In an instant, the melancholy that had descended upon them seemed to break like water against the shoreline, and Paul couldn’t help but fall about laughing. The thought of Tough Teddy Lennon, distraught with an abused guitar in hand, made Paul snort in a way that surely wasn’t attractive, until he had to lean against a window pane for support. 

“Banjo chords!” he exclaimed through his laughter, staring at John incredulously. “On a guitar? Daft lad!”

John couldn’t seem to hold back a smirk as well. “Aye, I’d be prayin’ for the poor bastards who were subjected to that shite. The Quarrymen, we were. Thought we were the kings of our naughty little town.”

Paul wiped a spare tear from his eye. “I would’ve paid to hear it,” he said, still emitting faint giggles. “Spotty teenaged Lennon, spouting his muzak.”

John looked at him with what Paul thought could be fondness. “You would’ve corrected me in an instant, even from the crowd, ye musical bastard.”

“Probably.” Paul gave his most angelic smile. “S’why Brian offered me a job at his music shop. I’m fated to be a teacher, y’know.”

“You what!” John exclaimed, face contorting into a look of almost comical outrage. “That fuckin’ wanker!” He looked at Paul accusingly. “He knows I’ve been beggin’ after that gig.” The sudden downward twist of John’s mouth, displeased and sullen, sent Paul into another round of laughter. 

“S’all yours, mate,” he assured, flicking away the ash from his cigarette. “Banjo chords and all. I’m not gonna be sticking around for much longer like, anyway.”

A new spark of awareness lit up John’s face at Paul’s remark, like he was coming up for air after long since being submerged. “You’re not leaving soon _today,_ though, are ye?” he asked anxiously, turning his head to look at the sinking light of the sun over the horizon. His eyelashes looked absurdly long from the angle, casting delicate shadows on the smooth planes of his face. “We’ve not yet listened to that Elvis LP.”

Paul started in surprise, having forgotten the reason for his visit in the first place, but managed to quickly recover. “If you think I’m leaving here without listening to it, Lennon, then you really must be mad.”

But when John smiled at him, mouth half-hitched and eyes crinkled at the corners, Paul felt himself dissolve. Even if John was mad, he surely wasn’t alone.

* * *

Darkness enveloped the lighthouse in a steady wave, but Paul scarcely noticed. He sat beside John on one of his dowdy old couches, guitar in his lap and a tumbler clutched lazily in his hand. A bottle of Scotch sat open between them, half-empty and steadily growing emptier still, but Paul mostly felt drunk on Elvis and the way John looked at him, soft and grinning in the low light. He still looked rather imposing, Teddy boy quiff tumbling over in rebellious strands, eyes half-lidded and challenging as ever, but the way his cheeks were rosy from alcohol and his glasses sat askew on his face seemed to Paul that yet another wall had crumbled down. 

“You’ve got Buddy Holly glasses,” Paul observed, tapping his own face in emphasis. They had played through Elvis’ album once, twice, and were now trying to learn the lyrics and chords themselves. It had been like this for a couple of hours: sitting like mirror reflections, guitars in hand, leaning toward one another and whispering their thoughts, laughing as if they had been doing it for years. Paul felt the alcohol rush giddily through his veins. Every time their arms brushed, something unnameable churned within him. 

“Aye, mind me fuckin’ gogs,” John slurred, reaching up to adjust them and almost sending his own guitar careening off the couch in the process. “Whoops.”

Paul snickered as John righted himself. “They suit you, I think.”

“Aye, well, s’better than walkin’ in fuckin’ circles all day.” John crossed his eyes and made a maniacal face, but then he seemed to sober up as he studied Paul. “Has anyone ever told ye that ye look like Elvis?”

John licked his lips in a way that sent Paul adrift in convoluted desire. “I think you’re really pissed, mate,” he said lightly, staggering to his feet. 

“No more than you!” John pointed out, laughing, but frowned when he noticed that Paul was no longer sitting beside him. “Wait, where’re ye goin’?”

Paul was loath to leave, but it was getting late and George was probably waiting up for him. He told John as much, teetering unsteadily where he stood. 

“John,” he said. “John. I really ought to head back to the inn. George’s probably waitin’ for me.”

“Bollocks!” John said, looking up at him churlishly. “You’ll be stayin’ here. It’s too late to be goin’ out, and yer bloody pissed.” He made to get up off the couch as well, but Paul waved him back down. The couch springs squeaked beneath him. 

“No, John, seriously. S’okay. George —”

“Fuck George,” John said. “I can even give ye me bed. No, no,” he insisted, warding off Paul’s inevitable protests. “I’ve gotta do some stuff around here, anyroad. Duty calls, and all.” 

He staggered to his feet and began herding Paul toward a far room, one large hand finding the small of his back and propelling him lightly along. John’s heady proximity, coupled with the Scotch swirling in his veins, made Paul forget exactly why he was resisting. He let John guide him through an adjoining doorway, eyes fluttering when a lamp was switched on to reveal a room with a large, four-poster bed. The sight sent Paul’s heart galloping in his chest. 

“Are you sure?” he asked John again, because the prospect of shivering his way back to the inn, with its tatty quilts and patterned wallpaper, was becoming more and more distasteful. John merely rolled his eyes. 

“S’all yours, son. I’ll just be naffin’ about, tendin’ to the light and such.” 

“Ta, John,” Paul said sincerely. He wasn’t sure he imagined it when he saw John flush. 

“You’re alright. I’ll try not to wake ye up.” He gave Paul one last smile before turning toward the door. 

Paul watched his retreating back. “John?” he called. 

John paused, glancing over his shoulder. “What?” The word in John’s brogue sounded low and raspy. Paul’s heart faltered. 

“Goodnight.”

Something complicated flitted over John’s expression, before it settled into something almost warm. 

“Goodnight, Paul,” he replied. He shot one last indiscernible glance behind him before striding out into the hall, stopping only to make sure that the door shut behind him. It closed with a gentle thud. 

Paul looked around him, blinking blearily against the soft light of the lamp. The walls of John’s bedroom were strewn with fantastic little drawings, interspersed, Paul noticed amusedly, with pin-ups of Bardot and Elvis. He collapsed onto the bed, not even bothering to strip off his jacket before burrowing underneath the covers. The lighthouse outside his room was quiet, and Paul wondered what John could be working on. What does a lighthouse keeper even do?

He was too tired to ponder the matter further. The bed sheets smelled like what Paul was rapidly coming to associate with John: smoke and sugar and something darker, like the wind off of the sea. He burrowed deeper into soft fabric, inhaling deeply. He thought again of John, and a peculiar type of warmth spread through him. Paul couldn’t exactly recall the last thought he had before he drifted off to sleep, but it was something nonsensical, involving piano keys and beautiful hands, sunsets and auburn hair. 

That night, despite being closer to the sea than ever, Paul didn’t dream at all.


End file.
